Children of Time, TARDISode 1: Settling In
by Wholmes Productions
Summary: "Doctor, I think it's time you gave us an official tour of the TARDIS." Need we say more? Follow-on from 'Gridson'.
1. Touring

**==Chapter 1: Touring==**

"_The limits of possible can only be defined by going beyond them into the impossible." _  
― Arthur C. Clarke

Watson felt as if he'd run the full gamut of emotion while listening to Holmes and the Doctor relate their first encounter – although horror and wonder remained firmly at the head of the queue. So _this_ was why Holmes had woken screaming every few nights for months after his return... although if the detective remembered doing so, he'd never said a word about it.

"So you're telling me," he said bemusedly as the three strolled down the corridor from the control room, "that there are now two actual yetis roaming the Himalayas?"

"Could be a few more by now," the Doctor said casually, hands in his pockets. "It's been two years, and it's _ridiculously_ cold at night up there!"

Watson snorted with laughter as Holmes' eyes widened, sharp inhale turning into a coughing fit. "Not all genetic engineering happens in a lab, old boy!"

Holmes looked away, cheeks burning, clearing his throat. "Yes, well..." He cast a pleading look at the Doctor, who flashed an apologetic grin back.

"All right, well! Here we are!" The Time Lord opened the door and gestured invitingly. "The TARDIS medbay, home to the finest medical equipment in all of Time and Space..."

It was Holmes' turn to grin as he moved aside to let Watson enter. The doctor stepped into the room, breath catching as he drank in his surroundings. Although never overly religious at the best of times, he felt as awestruck as a... as a devout Catholic must feel on a visit to the Vatican. This was, after all, a temple of sorts – to the healing arts. What wouldn't _any_ physician worth their Oath give to be standing where he was?

Watson laid a reverent hand on the nearest machine, remembering the little Holmes had told him of his treatment here. Judging by the Doctor's quiet wince as the detective glossed over that part of the tale, Holmes' condition had been far more critical than he would ever want Watson to know. Resolving to look up the TARDIS's records on her human patient later on, Watson smiled gratefully at the Doctor, leaning opposite Holmes, arms folded. "Thank you..." he murmured, greatly wishing that he'd remembered to say so earlier.

"Ohhh, my pleasure, really!" the Doctor smiled back. "You're welcome to come down here any time you want – I don't use this place much, and I'm sure the old girl would love to talk shop with you, show you how to use the equipment."

Watson was certain his eyes were shining like a child's on Christmas morning as he inclined his head to the room at large. "It would be an honour, madam."

There was a flurry of happy twitters from one of the central machines.

The Doctor's smile broadened, turning mischievous. "Should we leave you two alone now?"

The TARDIS gave a raspberry-like buzz, and the Doctor giggled.

Holmes shrugged in affectionate resignation. "Well, if we ever want to find him, we'll know where to look!" His eyes widened with a sudden thought: "Just don't expect me to be your test subject!"

Watson gave Holmes' sternly pointing finger an innocent look. "I wouldn't dream of it, Holmes..." tilting his head thoughtfully, "although your last official physical exam was how long ago: four years?"

Holmes groaned, glaring across the doorway. "I'm blaming you for this, Doctor!"

* * *

"Okay, so! Library!" The Doctor gestured expansively, enjoying the fishlike gapes from both his Companions. "At any point in Time, home to whatever books and other media the TARDIS decides she wants... 'Course, keep a safe distance around the swimming pool. She won't let you drown or anything, but no sense in getting a dunking!"

He was just enjoying this, period. Showing his Companions around the TARDIS was always fun, but it had been a very long time since he'd done so. Rose had found her own way—she always did...

And he could safely say that the Victorian men were awestruck, even despite everything they'd seen. Of course, he understood: the enormous, multi-galleried room with its miles and miles of shelves held more books than any one human could read in a hundred lifetimes. The Doctor himself would not manage it even could he live the maximum amount of millennia for a Time Lord.

Holmes tore his gaze from the upper levels and settled it on the pool, smiling. As incongruous as the image was, the huge pool in the centre of the marble-floored foyer... at least the TARDIS had managed to blend poolside and library furniture. Potted palms, deckchairs, upholstered sofas, leather armchairs, and desks with reading lamps surrounded the space. Moving the pool to the library was something the TARDIS had done for the Doctor and Rose—it had been their special space, that pool...

The Doctor was pulled out of his reverie by Holmes's delighted chuckle. "I don't think he'll be needing a bedroom, Doctor..."

Watson's expression was decidedly starry-eyed until he shook his head and returned to the present. "Actually, I think I need a drink!"

* * *

In the cocktail lounge, Watson sank gratefully onto a bar stool. "_Slàinte_," he murmured, wearily raising his glass of Scotch to his drinking partners.

Holmes watched sympathetically as his friend took a fortifying gulp, raising his own glass in response. The detective had intended to sample the Château Lafite 5120 in the wine rack, but the Doctor had insisted on personally mixing something he amusingly termed a '_sonic_ screwdriver'; which, appropriately enough, was a luminous blue and effervescent as champagne. Holmes took a cautious first sip, relaxing when he found it potable – surprisingly so, he would never have imagined combining vanilla with three kinds of citrus.

His composure steadily returning, Watson glanced around the elegant room with mild interest, gaze falling on the small stage at the far end. "That machine on the platform, Doctor: what's it for?"

"Oh, it's, ah, karaoke," the Doctor explained, nursing his banana daiquiri. "It's, um, interactive entertainment – you turn on the pre-recorded music and sing with it. Big thing in the Far East by the end of the twentieth century."

Watson looked greatly intrigued, as well he might; the invention of the phonograph in '77 had proved a great assistance to many a dinner party hostess, but there had been precious few technological advances in the world of art since. "So the cone with the wire attached is a microphone?"

Holmes grimaced, unable to share his friend's enthusiasm. "I shudder to think what travesties have been committed in the name of music by then!" A hundred years was a long time by anyone's standards, and when those standards were relaxed... Watson might call him an elitist, but he would never understand how anyone's artistic soul could be appeased by the hackneyed drivel that was churned out in the music halls.

Watson grinned teasingly. "What are the odds that machine has Messieurs Gilbert and Sullivan?"

Holmes' eyes narrowed in a warning glare. "Watson..."

The Doctor grinned back slyly, "Ohhh, well now, I don't know. Not the most likely thing to come up in a karaoke bar, but this _is_ the TARDIS..." then burst into laughter when, as if on cue, the all too familiar opening song from _The Mikado_ blared out of the machine's loudspeakers.

Watson snickered at Holmes' horrified expression, even starting to sing, the turncoat: "_...we are gentlemen of Japan..._"

Holmes closed his eyes in true pain and rested his forehead on the bar, muttering, "A pint of your finest chloroform, landlord..."

* * *

With Holmes still vaguely resembling a thundercloud, the trio left the cocktail lounge and continued on. Watson was gradually becoming more accustomed to the concept of spaces that were bigger on the inside – fortunate, as every room that they'd visited thus far seemed to have that attribute. He had asked the Doctor early on just how many rooms the TARDIS had, but their host didn't seem to know himself, then proceeded to floor his human colleague further by telling him that the rooms could change position according to an occupant's needs! However, the Time Lord assured him that he would soon learn to find his way around; Watson supposed that would have to be the case, considering how many other humans had travelled with the Doctor previously.

They rambled through the main arboretum, admiring its magnificent collection of plants – Watson would swear that some of the more exotic-looking blooms had turned to watch _them_ as they passed – then stopped by the garage so that the Doctor could introduce them to 'Bessie'... which turned out to be, of all things, a canary-yellow automobile. The vehicle was in excellent condition, the Doctor admitting a little sheepishly that he hadn't taken her out since his third regeneration. Watson smiled a minute later to see the alien giving the car's paintwork an apologetic buff with his sleeve, thinking the other two were busy inspecting the hovercraft in the next bay.

A bowling alley, gymnasium, and something called a paintball range later, the Doctor noted that Watson's leg was starting to give out and called a halt, opening the nearest door to reveal an art gallery – although exactly what constituted art was clearly up for debate in here. At least a few of the works were familiar...

"Oo, _Starry Night_!" The Doctor beamed at the painting immediately opposite the gallery door. "Love _Starry Night_ – van Gogh is just brilliant!"

Watson smiled, curiosity piqued. "You've met the man?"

"No, actually, but I _should_ change that..."

The next painting along caught Watson's eye: rocks and trees in a barren wasteland, draped with melting clock faces. "Good grief..."

Holmes arched an amused eyebrow. "Rather an appropriate work for a time machine, I would have thought."

The Doctor tilted his head far to the side. "Weeeell... You can't say old Salvador didn't have a creative brain."

"Which is more than can be said for this Warhol fellow..." Holmes sniffed, eyeing the next frame with deep disdain, which merely contained an image of a tin of tomato soup.

Watson looked down ruefully as his stomach chose that moment to make itself heard. "I hate to interrupt the tour, Doctor, but my last decent meal was back in 1599!" No need to mention the biscuit... and he highly doubted that the other two had found time to eat while attempting to rescue him from the motorway, either.

Still keen to take in as much as he could before they had to leave, the doctor stepped back slightly to get a better view of the next painting. Had this Pablo Picasso been trying to capture a woman, or a horse...? Just then, he felt himself smack into a large, solid object, and turned to find that he'd collided with the Venus de Milo. "So sorry, madam..." he smiled whimsically, then froze in horror as the art gallery started fading around them – next moment the three men were standing in an entirely different room, full of machinery. Watson's eyes widened. "What the devil...? Doctor, did I just break something?"

"Oh, sorry!" The Doctor gave him a reassuring smile. "Forgot to warn you about that statue... The gallery's an illusion, sort of camouflage for the ancillary power station underneath. You bumped the access switch. So, food, yes!" bouncing on his heels. "Fancy a kitchen from the thirty-second century or the twelfth?"

Watson grinned in immense relief. "Well, I could probably eat a horse, but spit roasting one might take a little too long."

"Thirty-second century kitchen it is, then," the Doctor grinned back. "Cooking is so easy, you don't even realise you're cooking!"

* * *

The Doctor didn't much use the 32nd century kitchen, himself, but it certainly was something else. It wasn't exactly _The Jetsons_ or Star Trek's food replicators, but only because nothing could replace real food. Anything else just didn't taste right.

Holmes gave a silent whistle at the place in all its sleek, chrome-plated glory. "What Mrs. Hudson wouldn't give for five minutes in here, eh, Watson?"

Watson arched a very Scottish eyebrow. "Her talents would still be wasted on you, Holmes, I feel quite certain."

The Doctor snickered—he was very much enjoying the banter. It was easy to see how the army doctor had held his own with Sherlock Holmes all these years... "All right, all right, this I've gotta know: Holmes, I know about the whole not-eating-on-a-case-thing, and, believe me, I sympathise..." Case in point: the Doctor couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten! "But don't you have _any_ weaknesses when it comes to food? Any at all?"

Watson smiled. "Italian. He's addicted—especially to the coffee!"

Holmes nodded, his expression slightly woeful. "Unfortunately, Goldini's is the only decent establishment in Greater London, and their prices are a little high for regular dining."

The Doctor's eyebrows started wiggling, and he took on a singsong tone. "You've come to the right plaaaace..." A Companion craving genuine Italian cooking at... _reasonable_... prices? The TARDIS would be more than happy to accommodate...

Watson and Holmes exchanged boyish grins. "Penne," said Watson, "with da Vinci, anyone?"

* * *

It was just possible, Holmes thought as they piled back through the door an hour later, panting for breath, that at least one of their future adventures might not involve any running! One had to hope...

"Dinner party at the Medicis," Watson huffed as sarcastically as he could manage, leaning on the nearest railing. "What a _brilliant_ idea that was."

"Well, it would've been rude if we'd said no!" the Doctor protested. "I mean, come on – da Vinci's patron family!"

"Yes," Watson growled, glaring at Holmes, who countered in kind. "Right up until _he_ told Lucrezia Borgia that lead salts would be less detectable than aconite!" The doctor shook his head in despair. "Next time, Holmes, if you think your wine's been poisoned, just don't drink it!"

Holmes gave a defensive shrug. "The woman's rings were obviously hollow; if she didn't want her reputation, she'd use subtler methods." Although he might have employed subtler methods himself, if milady Borgia hadn't also been eyeing _Watson's_ glass... "Not that anyone's going to arrest her, in any case," he continued sourly. "_La Familia_ is a wonderful thing..."

The doctor's stern expression softened, moving up the ramp and placing a sympathetic hand on his friend's shoulder. Perhaps Watson did have some idea of what that meal had been like for Holmes: sitting a mere table's length from some of Italy's most corrupt politicians and cold-blooded murderers... and unable to do a _damned_ thing about it. "Look at this way, Holmes –" he said gently, "at least you're putting their descendants behind bars."

Holmes gave Watson a grateful look, managing a faint smile at the thought – now that would have been an amusing introduction... _Delighted to meet you, Signor Medici, my colleague and I have already had the pleasure of arresting your great-great-grandchildren..._

Watson returned the smile wearily, biting back a yawn as the adrenaline from their mad dash faded.

The Doctor had been looking on sympathetically during the exchange; Holmes could now recall that the Time Lord also knew – only too well! – the frustration of having to let History run its course. Their host smiled kindly as Watson yawned. "Weeell, looks like the bedrooms are next on the list, eh, honey?"

His ship chirped softly in agreement.

* * *

**Author's note from Ria:** Now, this chapter was fun to write! Originally, we were just going to write the main seasons – but as always, interesting sidelights poked their heads up and insisted on being included, if only between episodes. And let's face it, the TARDIS's interior doesn't get nearly enough screen time in the TV series!

**Author's note from Sky:** Honestly, I'm so glad that we can do these little bit-episodes, because they allow us to just have fun with the characters. We don't have to worry about plot. It's just the boys, the TARDIS, and us, and that's fantastic. I don't care what anybody says - "pointless" banter is _fun_.


	2. Retiring

**==Chapter 2: Retiring==**

"_But I at last with weary feet  
Will turn towards the lighted inn,  
My evening-rest and sleep to meet."_  
– J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings

Watson was pleasantly surprised to find that his bedroom was furnished in an elegant Anglo-Indian style, not overly large or opulent, but spacious and comfortable enough to feel luxurious. His feet sank into the thick carpet as he crossed the room to discover what lay behind the second door in the far wall, which slid open at a touch to reveal a most welcome sight: he had his own bathroom.

A huge, circular tub dominated one corner, already full of gently steaming water. Watson lost no time in climbing in, sinking back with a long sigh of pure bliss as the heat soaked into his aching muscles, breathing a heartfelt thanks to the TARDIS for the splendid service. The stench and grime of Bedlam and New New York already felt half a lifetime away...

He realised with a start that he was beginning to nod off and stirred himself to wash. The TARDIS might not allow him to drown, but certain conduct simply wasn't appropriate when one was a guest. Rising from the bath, he wrapped himself in a linen robe that had been hanging beside the door and collected his stained and somewhat tattered garments from the floor.

There was a small hatch in one wall marked 'Laundry', opening onto a chute that dropped out of sight. Watson gladly sent the bundle of clothes on its way, meaning to ask the Doctor later if the TARDIS took sole care of such things, or if he would at least need to push a button or two.

A long benchtop with a washbasin set into it was home to a bewildering array of tubes, bottles and jars, and Watson had to wonder if most of them were actually meant for his use – why would he need hair thickener? Whoever had used this room before him must have been a hopeless dandy. At least he was able to identify the toothpaste. The shaving stand was well-equipped, too, which he fully intended to make use of next day... or whatever... it was... good Lord, he was almost asleep on his feet.

He shuffled back into the bedroom, then blinked – he was fairly certain there hadn't been a fireplace in here before – but he wasn't about to complain, the dancing flames were very soothing. The four poster bed effortlessly lured him over, and he sank gratefully into the warm embrace of eiderdown and pillows. Good thing he didn't need to... put out... the lights...

* * *

Holmes surveyed his room with approval – the space was about the size of the Baker Street sitting room, with a bare wood floor and plain walls, containing only the essential furniture. He knew the TARDIS could provide whatever he asked for, but he didn't see the need for more; ultimately, a bedroom was for sleeping and storing one's clothes.

He ventured into the next room and found an ensuite, which featured, to his delight, a shower stall. He had first encountered this innovation while in Montpellier, just prior to returning to London. Sadly, Mrs. Hudson had refused point blank to have one installed at 221B, despite his pointing out that such a fixture would save her a great deal of time and trouble, besides being more hygienic than a bathtub.

He stood under the cascade a long time, turning up the water pressure so that the driving jet could massage his complaining shoulders; all that swinging from car hatches on the motorway was starting to catch up with him. As his muscles unknotted, so did his mind, old thoughts draining away to make room for the new.

What a day... heaven only knew how much linear time had passed since they'd escaped Queen Elizabeth's guards. Would it always be like this with the Doctor? For Watson's sake, Holmes would have to ensure they paused whenever feasible to allow his friend to eat and rest, or the poor fellow would burn out in a matter of days.

Exiting the shower, he found a robe and nightshirt, then dropped into the wingback armchair beside the fire. Watson was no doubt fast asleep by now – he supposed he should turn in as well, but he was just wasn't ready to settle yet... then he smiled as Wagner's slow, stately measures fell on his ears.

"Thank you, my dear," he murmured, leaning back and closing his eyes. The Doctor had mentioned the TARDIS had a music room, he ought to seek it out later...

* * *

The Doctor had meant to return to the control room once he'd seen the boys off to bed, but the TARDIS seemed to have other ideas. No matter which way he turned, he kept ending up in front of _his_ bedroom. The one he scarcely ever used anymore.

"Honey," he wheedled, "come on! I've got stuff I want to do."

She blooped back.

He groaned and put his fists on his hips. "I'm not going to let you mother-hen me!" Not that he'd ever stopped her before in the last few centuries, but still! He didn't like sleeping anymore.

Her only response was to open the bedroom door.

He glared at it.

Soft music seeped into his mind, a song he'd last heard while taking the Vortex out of Rose. _"I sang a song, and the Daleks ran away."_ The TARDIS had sung Rose to sleep then, allowing her body to deal with the trauma while unconscious.

It was a Gallifreyan lullaby.

He didn't... he didn't want to... didn't want to sleep. To remember.

Tears pricked at his eyes. "Why?"

Because she wasn't about to let him kill himself, that was why.

Memories of Rose flooded his mind, good memories, her smile with her tongue peeking out between her teeth... The images began to intertwine with images of Holmes and Watson.

His new Companions.

He _wasn't _alone.

_We take only the best._

He stepped into the bedroom. The TARDIS continued to croon sweetly in his mind as he pulled off his converses and jacket. The moment he climbed into the large, soft bed, the exhaustion caught up with him and pulled him under. He hadn't slept in so very long...

He swiftly drifted off in the TARDIS's music, and she kept the monsters at bay.

* * *

**Authors' note:**

Sleep well, boys – you've got another big day coming. Shhh, spoilers...

See you in Episode 4, everyone! =)


End file.
